Almost
by RWM1995
Summary: Three times that proximity, hormones, and invasions of privacy reduced Rose to tears and Scorpius to sentimentality.
1. Chapter 1

"Hey arsehole! Get your bloody trousers out of the here. _Now_!"

"Piss off, Weasley!" the git bellows from the common room, contempt tingeing his voice.

You'd never shared a bathroom until Hogwarts. It's not that you were spoiled, exactly, but, because your parents composed two-thirds of the beloved Golden Trio, you wanted for very little in your childhood. You'd have thought that six years of rooming with Dominique, Kitty Spinnet, and Octavia Wright—six long years of good-natured squabbling and nicked toiletries and rushed showers—would have at least somewhat prepared you for sharing the loo with the Head Boy.

But then, you hadn't counted on the Head Boy being Scorpius Malfoy.

"Don't think I won't hex these," you warn, fingers itching to cast a simple stinging charm on the garment. "Or maybe I'll use your stench to brew a love potion… for Marilla Cartwright."

A beat of silence. Two. And then: "You wouldn't fucking dare."

You can't help but grin, triumphant, and you're only marginally surprised when he saunters into the steamy bathroom clad in nothing more than checkered boxer shorts and a smug grin, bending deliciously slow to pluck his stupid pants off the slick tile. _Sweet Merlin._ "Take your shit and leave," you manage through gritted teeth, suddenly conscious of your loosened hair, dripping frigid droplets of water down your back, and silk bathrobe slipping dangerously loose, even as a delicious heat surges to your core.

He doesn't, of course, his gaze slowly exploring the length of your body, an appreciative whistle flitting through his lips. "My god, Red."

 _As though he's never seen a girl in less than a robe._ "Malfoy," you hiss, crossing your arms over your exposed chest and belatedly jerking your eyes from the trail of white-blonde fuzz leading down from his navel. "I said get out. Immediately."

He swallows hard. The trousers in his hands drop silently to the tile, and he crosses the floor in two steps, his hands effortlessly finding the curve of your hips. "I'll take my time, thanks." His voice takes on the husky, just-woken-up quality that leaves you a little breathless, and his fingers trace up your ribcage, lightly outlining each hard ridge and _Jesus Christ, when did it become like this_? "You had to know this would happen sooner or later."

You struggle to catch your breath, sucking in a gasp as his hands travel higher; you can feel his Quidditch callouses tugging at the fabric, and you wonder, wantonly, what his hands would feel like against your bare flesh. "I had hoped for later," you reply, slumping heavily against the sink, gripping the edge of the vanity and hanging on for dear life, your head lolling back helplessly as your body throbs with wanting. "You're not even my friend. This isn't . . . we really oughtn't-"

"Shove it," he whispers, eyes darkening to ebony as he grips the back of your neck and lowers his mouth to yours, bending you backwards and smacking your skull unceremoniously against the foggy mirror.

And it's never been like this before. Not with Erik. Not with Parker. There is a desperation in his touch that terrifies you, an urgency in his labored breathing and the way he groans your name, and he's actually _straddling_ you, and when you open your mouth to tell him to fuck off, he deepens the kiss, digging his fingers into your hair and crinkling the silk of your robe as your hands hesitantly travel the breadth of his shoulders and discover the silkiness of still-damp hair.

"Oh, God. Oh, Malfoy," you whimper when his mouth wanders from your lips to your neck to the hard length of your collarbone then lower and _lower_ , melting your knees and making it difficult to breathe properly. "Malfoy, please, we can't."

He stills, caressing your skin with his breath, straightening to lower his eyes to yours. "Don't pretend you want this any less than I do," he hisses.

"I _don't_ want this!"

"Prove it."

"You conceited little shit-"

And he proves you wrong again, lifting you roughly at the waist and thumping you down on the sink's ledge to better accommodate his height.

"Merlin, Scorpius, stop it," you rasp, even as your legs part to draw him closer and you smooth your hands down the span of his chest, clinging to his waist. His lips dance across your jawbone, teasing the soft expanse of skin behind your ear, his fingers greedy and tender, and you can only take so much before you surrender to this. To him. And as delicious as it would be, it wouldn't be right. He's a Malfoy, and you're a Weasley, and people write tragedies about relationships like yours, and you summon the strength to push him away. "I said s _top_."

He does, confusion lighting his gaze as he slowly lowers you, backs away. "But you - I thought-"

"You thought wrong." You shakily re-cinch your mused robe, scrub your hand across your lips. "Don't ever pull a move like that again, or I'll. . . I'll hex your bits off."

Fury replaces the dismay in his eyes. "You wanted this. You still want this." He turns on his heel and storms out of the loo, shouting, "Stop lying to yourself, Red!" Somewhere across the apartment, a door slams, and you realize his damned trousers are still on the floor. Stifling a sob, you bend to retrieve the garment, running your fingers down the fabric that had encased his body.

And you sink to the ground and cry, because you've never known a longing like this before.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: This drabble is set in the middle of Rose and Scorpius' sixth year. Both are Prefects for their respective houses (Gryffindor and Slytherin). Yes, I fell prey to the Alice Longbottom II cliche, and yes, I may need to adjust the rating of this story as it progresses. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it, and please R&R.

* * *

"Are you . . . breaking up with me?" The question is weak, strangled, and Rose hates herself for it. She's chucked loads of boys—seven, to be exact—but this is uncharted territory, and she loathes it.

"Listen, Rosie, it's not you, it's—"

"Don't," she interrupts, her grip on her wand tightening. "Don't say that."

Silas Bletchley buries his fingers in his dark brown hair, frown lines framing each hazel eye. "I'm sorry," he sighs. "I'm no good at this. It's not as easy as you make it sound."

Rose rolls her eyes. "Spare me," she grinds out.

He stretches a hand toward her. "Promise me," he begins, a hopeful half-smile playing about his mouth, "that we can still be friends. I couldn't stand it if—"

Aunt Ginny's famous Bat Bogey Hex is on the tip of her tongue when the door slams open, revealing a willowy Fourth Year whose name, Rose is certain, begins with an L.

"Silas?" she croaks, stepping into the dimly lit classroom, confusion wrinkling her pretty face. "What… what's she doing here? You told me 7 o'clock. I thought…"

By the time the Fourth Year (Rose later learns that her name is actually Miranda, which starts with an M, which is quite near L) realizes that both she and her older housemate have been played, Rose has hexed Bletchley twenty-six times and earned herself an equal number of detentions.

* * *

"You did _what_?" Molly screeches the next morning, causing a number of heads to swivel towards the Gryffindor table.

Lucy tosses a thick golden braid over her shoulder with the same exasperated scowl always reserved for her older sister. "Shut it," she snaps, reaching for Rose's hand with a warm smile. "Our Rosie acted admirably. I know if _I'd_ discovered my boyfriend was fucking—""

" _Lucy Minerva Weasley_!"

"Sorry, Moll, er . . . _sleeping_ with a ruddy fourteen-year old, he'd have dealt with much worse than a few Bat Bogeys."

Molly, fifteen and impressionable and dreadfully dull, in Rose's personal opinion, slathers butter rather forcefully onto a muffin. "Twenty-six," she mutters darkly, before raising her eyes to her sister and cousins. "Rose is lucky she wasn't expelled, and you all know it!"

Lucy opens her mouth to berate the freckled Fifth Year, but Al beats her to it, throwing a protective arm around Rose's shoulders. "Don't be a ponce, Molly," he says in a clipped voice. "Bletchley's fine. Look, he's already got a new bird."

They turn as a group toward the end of the table, where Silas and a platinum blonde slag are enthusiastically attacking one another's mouths. Rose's stomach turns, and she pushes her plate away, tears pricking her eyes.

Across from her, Hugo clenches his wand in his pudgy fist. "Shall I finish him for you?" he offers, sharing a glance with James and Fred, born within three minutes of one another and rarely parted for longer, but Rose shakes her head, straightening.

"No," she says quickly, forcing the tremor of shame from her voice. "No, don't. You're sweet, all of you, really," she assures them, ignoring Molly's grumblings, "but I'd rather the news not travel any further. It's all rather embarrassing, and, frankly, I'd like to forget that Bletchley even exists. He's not worth it."

"But Rose!" whine James and Fred in unison, per fucking usual. Hugo clasps his hands in a silent plea, batting the enormous brown eyes he inherited from their mother at his older sister. It's all very revolting, and, not for the first time in her sixteen years, Rose wishes for a smaller—or, at least, less meddlesome—family.

"Honestly," sighs Lily, before Rose can respond. "You're not helping, you know. If Rose wants it left alone, then please, for Godric's sake, let's leave it the hell alone."

Al disguises his snort of laughter in a swig of pumpkin juice, and Rose can't help but allow a small smile at her cousin's swift defense.

"You really oughtn't curse," hisses Molly, sending a plaintive glance toward her redheaded cousin.

"Sometimes I wonder about you, Moll," sneers Lily, lunging across the table mop up the juice that James, having abandoned Rose's case, is actively spilling in an obvious attempt to catch Flora Spinnet's attention from across the hall.

"We have a reputation to uphold, and—"

"Oh, sod _off_! I can't believe I'm actually related to someone as _thick_ as you!" bellows Lucy, throwing her napkin on the ground with several expletives and storming off to Potions lecture, sparing Rose a peck on the cheek as she sweeps out of the hall. As the rest of the Sainted Potter-Weasleys, as Scorpius Malfoy, Al's closest friend and housemate, lovingly refers to the clan, descends upon Molly and her infernal nagging, Rose buries her head in her hands.

* * *

"What the hell, Rose?" groans Kitty, her early-morning annoyance plain even from behind the locked bathroom door. "Are Cora and Spence fucking in the Prefect's Bath again, or are you just being a ponce?"

She rolls her eyes into the foggy mirror. "One second, Spinnet," she replies, securing her robe and twisting her wet curls into a topknot before muttering a halfhearted _Alohamora_.

The door crashes open, revealing Rose's tousled roommate and causing Octavia to hiss and recoil from the light, tugging her covers over her face with a muffled expletive. "Honestly," frowns Kitty, crossing her arms over her chest and effectively blocking her exit. "The other loo is cleaner, newer, _and_ less croweded. What gives?"

"This one's closer."

"Point taken, but you've used the Prefect's Bathroom all term. This doesn't have anything to do with that Bletchley scum, does it?" Her face softens, and she lays a hand on Rose's arm. "You can tell me, you know."

"Oi! Can she tell you at a more godly hour? Or maybe in private?" snaps Octavia.

Kitty whips around to face her best friend. "Are you a witch or not? Cast a bloody silencing spell and piss off!"

"Kit, you're a real bitch," grumbles their roommate, almost affectionately.

"Sure, but you love me for it," smiles Kitty, to which Octavia responds with a rude hand gesture and the recommended spell. Kitty turns back to Rose, shrugging apologetically. "Sorry. Did you want to finish explaining yourself?"

Rose manages a thin smile. "Not really."

"Well," says Kitty brightly, pushing past Rose and plunking a makeup case on the counter top, "We've got a new bathroom routine since you took the Prefect position, but if you're back for good, I guess I can have a word with the girls about squeezing you in somewhere."

Before she can respond to the teasing, Kitty pushes her out of the loo, leaving her to drip cold puddles onto the stone floor and mentally establish a new bathing routine.

* * *

"Al, don't make me beg."

Rose can summon tears on command. She'd picked up the trick from her mother years ago, and her daddy's reaction had taught her that they could win her just about any argument she found herself in.

And Rose found herself in plenty of arguments.

"Al, please, it's just for a couple weeks." Rose squeezes her cousin's arm plaintively, and he groans, adjusting his every-askew glasses with his forefinger and waggling dark eyebrows down at her.

"Now, Rosie, you know you're my favorite cousin, but that just doesn't warrant—"

"Need I remind you that I've helped you skive class every Thursday for the past three years?"

"Oh, come on!"

"Or that I wear your god-awful silver and green every other Saturday, even though we both know your team isn't worth a rat's ass?"

Al sputters a strangled expletive.

"Or—and Al, this is the one I really can't get over—that I spent all of last summer distracting Lily and Hugo and your goddamn parents so that you could Floo over to Alice's and fuck her senseless every night Neville and Hannah were abroad?"

"Now _that's_ low, even for you," Al says darkly.

And then, because her cousin doesn't seem to be budging, Rose starts to cry. "Don't make me share a bathroom with that piece of shit," she whimpers, backing away from Al and slumping tiredly against a shelf of dusty Arithmancy texts. It's shitty, she knows it's a really shitty move, but she honestly can't stomach living in the same building as Bletchley, let alone bathing in the room where they'd so often snogged and made love. Where he must've made love to the half dozen slags he'd kept while they were dating. "Please Al. It's such a small thing."

Three long beats of silence. "Shite, Rosie," Al sighs, pulling her into a tight hug.

That's how she finally wheedles the password for the Slytherin prefects' bathroom out of Albus Severus Potter.

* * *

"This place might be the sole perk of Prefect duty," she groans aloud, sinking into the warm, fragrant water and allowing the exhaustion and grime of tonight's particularly heated Quidditch practice to melt off her body.

The bath has been her haven for well over a month now, an escape from the bustle of her dormitory and safe from the constant interruption of her roommates' gossiping squeals and pitying stares. Her eyes drift closed and she slinks further beneath the water, fancying a few laps around the bath when— _BANG_!

The door slams open, and she pushes aside her dripping fringe in time to see Scorpius Malfoy's sharp features contort in horror. "Weasley?" he croaks, dropping a towel-wrapped bundle to the slick tile and freeing his hands to shield his eyes thanks to an admirable, if delayed, sense of propriety.

"Out!" she hisses, frantically concealing her nakedness with the foaming bubbles at the tub's surface. "And for Merlin's sake, shut _up_! It's past curfew."

Malfoy steps forward, allowing the door to click shut behind him. "I think I've gone blind," he moans, ignoring her outright. "And to think I found you ugly in your robes…" He breaks off with a shudder, and her fingers twitch toward her wand, tucked away in the cubicle holding her pajamas.

"I'm not in the mood," she grinds out, crossing her arms over her chest even though his eyes are still shut. "Please, Malfoy, just piss off!"

"But it's my turn!" he whines. "And you're in _my_ bathroom!"

"Get out! I'm . . . I'm _nude_!"

He guffaws unattractively. "Not my fault."

"You're a complete arse, you know. McGonagall will hear about this, I assure you. I'll tell her that—"

"What?" he interrupts, his hands falling away from his face. He smirks down at her blazing face. "You'll tell her what, Weasley? That you forgot to lock the bloody door? That you're incapable of casting a simple locking charm? That you actively snuck out of your dormitory past curfew for a _bath_? Or–" He breaks off with a low grunt of laughter. "Or that you, Miss Perfect Prefect Fucking Granger-Weasley, stole the password to this room from your own cousin?"

There is an uncomfortable, lingering tick of silence. She struggles to summon a comeback, settling for a half-hearted, "Fuck you."

He laughs again, harshly this time, and she notes the pulsing vein at his throat.

"A gentleman would exit quickly and quietly," she adds lamely, longingly eying her towel, crumpled several impossible yards from the water's edge.

"Ah, but Weasley," he smirks, "I never claimed to be a gentleman." She glares at him, and his grin widens. His hands begin working the knot at his neck, tugging at the silver and green tie. "Mind if I join you?"

She can actually feel her jaw drop and she flees to the farthest corner of the tub with a squeal. " _Malfoy_!"

But he's already shorn his shirt and pants and thrown himself into the chest-deep water, mercifully retaining his knickers. _Merlin, I wish I had my knickers._ "Ah," he sighs, "that's lovely."

She blinks once. Twice. "What the fuck are you doing?" she whispers, pleased that her tone and word choice finally banish the amusement from Malfoy's dark eyes. "We cannot share a bath. It's . . . it's . . ." She's tempted to cross herself.

"Scared, Weasley?" he asks drily, moving noiselessly towards her, the waist-deep water failing to obscure his arousal, and she hates herself for the tiny whimper that escapes her throat as she sinks deeper into the water. He stops, arches his brow. "You _are_ scared! God, Red, I don't bite."

 _I wish you did_. She refuses to be teased by him. Not here. Not now. _Not ever._ "This isn't proper," she breathes.

"Neither is what I feel right now," he whispers back, now completely serious. He's close enough that she can smell the sharpness of his cologne mingled with the sweat from his own Quidditch practice, and she sucks in a sharp breath when he takes her hand and presses it to his chest, just over his heart. "What I feel here."

"W-what are you trying to—"

"Shut up, Red," he murmurs, stepping closer, closer, closer. _Too close_.

"Okay," she whispers, and like that he's gathered her naked body to his chest, claiming her mouth with the insistence and competence that she's always known him to possess. His fingers curl into her wet hair, hers tracing the hard muscles of his back, and when his lips wander the curve of her jaw to her throat to her collarbone, she gasps and begins to see stars.

"Still scared?" he teases, and she latches onto his neck this time.

"Desperately," she admits when she can finally catch her breath.

"I've been watching you, Weasley."

She shakes her head when his hands drift below the surface of the water to cup her breasts. "This is a terrible idea," she breathes, even though every nerve in her body stands on edge, screaming, "Yes, God, _yes_."

"Red—"" He starts, lowering his mouth to hers again, but she pulls back, lays a hand against his warm cheek.

"You need to go."

He stills, his gaze going hard. And this time he does, pausing at the door with a tortured expression, his trousers and robes slung over his taut shoulders. "I didn't mean to press my advantage," he says in a low voice. "My apologies."

Her hands creep up to her flushed cheeks. "Malfoy–"

"Goodnight, Weasley."

She doesn't leave the bathroom for another hour, and she doesn't speak of Scorpius Malfoy for much longer than that.


	3. Chapter 3

In the four years she's lived with Albus, she's seen a lot. Her cousin's brought home stray dogs, drunken slags, fellow Healers, and, once, the stomach flu, and Rose has learned to expect unseemly surprises in their shared loo.

But she never expected a half-dressed Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy. Her first thought is, _it's too goddamn early for this_. Her second:

"Fucking hell! What are you doing here?"

"Jesus!" he groans, clapping his hands over his ears. "You're a right banshee in the morning."

It's seventh year all over again, but she's not sixteen anymore, and four years of Auror training have instilled in her the self-control that she always seemed to lack. She clenches her fists. "I will ask you one more time," she bites out, forcing her voice to remains stable. "And so help me Godric, if you piss me off any further, I will fucking end you."

He blinks down at her as though surprised by her tone. "Well aren't you just a ray of sunshine!"

The calm lasts about three milliseconds. "I warned you!" she snarls, charging forward and slamming him into the acrylic shower wall. "I fucking warned you, Malfoy!"

Something like amusement brightens his eyes, and his lips quirk into a smug grin, his hands easily trapping her wrists. "Easy, Red," he says. "I'm staying with Al for a few days. Calm your tits."

She sputters in exasperation, struggling to tug herself from his grip. "But–but–but he never even mentioned it to me—"

"He has a life outside of you," he inserts.

Rose snorts. "Hardly, unless you count Alice."

"Albus seems to."

"Look, Malfoy, this isn't _about_ Longbottom. This is about your scrawny arse hogging my bathroom at 7 a.m. I have work, not that you'd know anything about the concept, and—"

"Would you _please_ calm down?"

" _Stop_ bloody interrupting me!" she roars, stomping angrily on his bare foot. He hisses in pain and immediately releases her, allowing her to retreat to the other side of the room. She leans against the doorframe, spent, and he hunches over the sink, breathing heavily.

"Felicity finally chucked you, then?"

He laughs harshly, plows his fingers through his damp hair. "Something like that, yeah." He meets her eyes in the foggy mirror, silver piercing blue. "Come to gloat, Red?"

She scowls at him. "I _came_ to shower," she snaps.

"Be my guest," he sneers, sweeping his arm toward the tub.

" _You_ are already _mine_!" she snarls.

"Technically, I'm Al's."

"Oh, so the two of you finally fucked? Godric, it took you long enough. Lily and I worried for ages that you'd live in the closet forever."

"Don't try me, Weasley. Not today."

"Watch me!"

He whirls to face her, face twisted in fury, and they stand there for a charged moment, nose-to-nose, chest-to-chest, his hot breath ghosting across her forehead. He grips her elbows, his nails biting deep half-moons into her flesh, and before he opens his mouth to tell her to shove off, it hits her.

"She didn't chuck you, did she?"

He sucks in a sharp breath. "How did you—"

"She cheated on you."

He nods, his lips thinning into a wry grin. "Found her in bed with Ramsay. It's comical really…I'd chosen a ring and everything."

"That… that's awful," she chokes, because she _knows_. She knows this kind of hurt, and it fucking blows.

"Yeah," he mumbles, shaking his head. "It wasn't meant to be. Obviously."

"Oh, Malfoy…" She reaches for his hands, instinctively squeezing his calloused fingers. "I'm… I'm really sorry."

He shrugs, running his thumb over her knuckles. "Don't be. I was doing it for my parents anyway. Still…"

"She betrayed you," she finishes for him. "She betrayed you for someone you trusted, and that's painful."

He arches brow at her. "Never pegged you as a shrink, Red," he says lightly.

"I'm trying to be understanding, you twat," she frowns, dropping his hands. "If you'd rather revert to shouting—"

"I wouldn't," he interrupts. "I . . . thank you. Thanks."

"You're welcome," she replies, hugging herself awkwardly. "I…um…. I'm sorry if I made today anymore difficult. I shouldn't have jumped down your throat, and I just—"

"Shite, Weasley, do you want us to hold hands and sing Kumbaya?"

She scowls up at him. "Please be an adult," she scolds. "It's exhausting, trying to be nice to you—"

"Do you ever shut up?" he growls, and then his mouth claims hers, devouring her in a kiss that is so powerful and possessive that she goes a little limp. His hands frame her face, thumbs smoothing down her jaw, and he swallows her groan when he deepens the kiss, pressing her against the wall with a strangled moan.

"Goddamn," she gasps when his lips move to her throat, nipping at the sensitive flesh above her collarbone, and she scratches her nails down his bare back. "You've gotten better at this."

She can feel him grin triumphantly against her skin, and he straightens, looping his arms around her waist until their hips touch and she fairly pulses with longing for more of this, for more of _him_. "It's been four years," he whispers huskily, his knuckles skimming the curve of her arse. "I've had time to practice."

This time she initiates the kiss, rising on tiptoe to knot her fingers into his damp hair and ravage his mouth. He growls appreciatively when her lips find the shell of his ear, his hands traveling slowly under her shirt and up her ribcage and pausing at the swell of her breasts. "Rose," he breathes, the gravel of his voice nudging her eyes open. His are dark, molten mercury, and she shudders out a gasp when his thumbs knead her soft flesh. "Red… are you… can I…" He trails off, dropping his forehead down to hers and exhaling against her skin.

She hooks her fingers into the waistband of his trousers. "Yes, please," she whispers, surprising herself with her boldness. But this is Scorpius Malfoy, and she's lusted after this boy since she was fourteen and acne-ridden, and she'll be damned if she survives another second without his lips on hers. Maybe this'll last all of ten minutes, or maybe he'll insult her family and she'll be forced to hex his bits off, or maybe they'll find a way to channel their hostility and competition and sexual tension into something really fucking beautiful, and it's that last possibility that makes her raise her arms to the ceiling and her face to his with a coy smile.

"Fuck, Red," he croaks, and like that he's tossed her tank top onto the slick tile, relieved her of her shorts, and hoisted her (practically naked) body into his arms. As he carries her toward her bed, pausing twice—once to pepper kisses down her neck and chest, and once to cast a contraceptive charm—Rose decides that maybe her cousin's lack of judgment is merely romantic acumen in disguise.


End file.
